


Intervention

by MadameFolie



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen, Growth, Mentors, Mistakes, tough love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9174541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: Sigrun learns from her mistakes, Emil learns from his. It's a nice hearty helping of tough love for everyone.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lazy8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazy8/gifts).



The traps are set. Pit traps. Deadfalls. A tripwire around the campsite. They keep moving camp every night, though, so they'll have to put it all up again tomorrow. Makes it a freakin' pain in the ass, for what's pretty much a routine extermination. It's not like they have to get crazy paranoid. First off, the fallow zone is fenced off to the dark zones. Aside from this one troublemaker, they're not _going_ to run into any more nasties. Second, it's just the one. And it's up against the two of them. It's almost a little unfair, but mom says there's no such thing as fair and unfair when it comes to survival.

 

Uncle Trond seems like he agrees. He's got his gun right at his side even as he handles the campfire, prodding and rolling the wrapped sausages flanking the flames. After they eat, they're going to take shifts watching camp. Awful lot of overkill if you ask her, Sigrun thinks. But then again, it's not like anyone's actually asking her.

 

Which she guesses is probably part of that whole punishment thing.

 

 

 

 

"Just shoot!" He's shaking. Is he shaking? Or is does it just look like it because of the all the thrashing? The beastie's got only two limbs to spare, which means it's not too hard to twist them back behind it and hold it down -- but it does mean she doesn't have a spare hand of her own to grab a weapon and put this one to bed. And Emil's being as helpful as a limb sprouting out of her ass.

 

"But--" He drops his flamethrower and fumbles at his belt for a hand weapon. "The noise-- I'll hit you--"

 

And speaking of limbs, she's starting to lose feeling in hers. Just about everything but the burning of can't-hold-this-down-much-longer.

 

"I'm fine!" She growls. She tries to sit forward as heavily as she can, get as much weight into her hips as possible. "Be even--" --shit, this thing's got good stamina for all that it's bleeding out-- "--better once you put a knife in it!" Or a bullet, or a big rock, or anything--

 

The thing bucks and Sigrun can't spread her legs wide enough to keep her center of gravity low. It nearly levers itself to its side. Just the right amount of freedom it needs to twist its neck around and snap at her wrist. Fuck. Beginner mistake: she takes the bait and loosens her hold.

 

And then it's all downhill from there, the beast doesn't need too much extra effort to shuck her to the ground hard. Her vision's spinning impressively while Emil makes for its head and she hears herself in the distance trying to get him to go for the tail, or the body, dammit-- better a big target than an effective one, times like these, and then the ground is lurching underneath her and the creature's gone.

 

She comes to just as Emil's trying to roll her onto an improvised tarp made out of his flattened-out jacket. Which probably means she hasn't been out too long. Hoo, boy, doc's still not gonna like it.

 

"I told you to shoot." She tries to stare him down properly, but between the wooziness and the whole part where she's got her cheek smashed up into the dirt it just doesn't have the same punch.

 

"You're awake!" Emil drops her legs --way more suddenly than he had to, ow-- and scrambles to her side. Oh, for. "I'm sorry, I didn't-- I just, does it hurt? Anywhere?"

 

Eh. Everywhere. But there's no reason to freak the kid out even more. He's gripping the hem of the laid-out jacket like he's not sure whether to pick up where he left off or stand down.

 

"Had worse." Takes a sec to push herself up into a half-sit. She has to pause to blink the fog away. It doesn't seem to want to go -- which is going to make for a fun walk home. She waves him back anyway. "Shit. But let's not have a repeat of that, huh?"

 

"Sorry..." Emil rolls back onto his haunches, visibly shrinking in on himself as it all sinks in.

 

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."

 

 

 

 

Trond shakes her awake before dawn.

 

"Get up," he barks. "We're striking camp."

 

"Now?"

 

"Yes, now! That was an order, Private, not a discussion." One more hard shake for good measure. "Get up."

 

Out goes the fire. Away go the bedrolls. Down go all the traps. Everything goes onto their backs. They march on empty stomachs until the sun breaks through the trees, led through the dark by the light of Trond's flashlight. Finally, once the morning mist has dissipated, Trond hands her two rye flats to chew on while he checks their path against his map. Sigrun watches over his shoulder as he marks off their entry point and measures out some amount of progress North. A few points on the map are dotted in red and circled. At the edges of the dot cluster, they're spread out pretty far. Moving inwards, they start to gather close together.

 

"What's that?" The bread is the crappy ration kind, dry and scratchy, and crushed crumbs flee around her words. Trond doesn't bother brushing them off his coat.

 

"Sightings reported by our scouts. Our best bet for figuring out its territory."

 

"Territory?"

 

Trond grunts and there's a second where Sigrun's pretty sure he's going to leave it at that. But the moment passes. He taps the red dots.

 

"Territory. Some beasts fall back into the habits they had in life."

 

".....okay?"

 

"So a boar beast," he begins, and trails off, expectant. Sigrun frowns.

 

"....digs up your potatoes? I'm not following."

 

"Keeps to its territory."

 

"Oh." _Whatever_.

 

"Or at least it should. That's where we'll hunt it."

 

 

 

 

"Hm." Mikkel thumbs down her eyelid just a little bit more. Way harder than he has to. Nope. Called it: not a happy doc. "Now look center. Straight ahead." So she does. He angles the penlight sideways, easing the brunt of the blaze in her pupils. Slightly.

 

"Yeah.....and?" He's having way too much fun with this.

 

"It doesn't _look_ like a concussion. You don't think you hit your head?" Emil hangs off to the side, toeing at the dirt. The kitten's rubbing up against his back, apparently having worn out the novelty of getting her attentions from Freckles and the skald. He must be in a pretty bad way, to not be spoiling her rotten.

 

"Not that I can think of."

 

"Maybe one more test," Emil says. "Just in case?"

 

"I've run through them all," Mikkel replies, pocketing his light. He reflexively dusts his hands off on his apron. "Unless you know one I don't?" Emil's shoulders sink under the weight of this charge.

 

"No," he admits.

 

"So there! I'm fine!"

 

"I wouldn't go that far quite yet. Just in case, you're going to need to be under observation. For a little while, anyway." Observation? Coming from Mikkel, it sounds.....ominous, actually.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 

"It means we're both staying up late, until I'm convinced nothing's been shaken around too badly in there." Mikkel taps the top of her head. Emil cringes, imagining that little visual.

 

"Aw, come on. I told you, I'm fine!" And she needs some sleep. Stat.

 

"Concussions --suspected and otherwise-- are very serious, Sigrun. You'll get your sleep, as soon as we can all rest assured you're well."

 

Which is how they find themselves chewing the fat by the fire.

 

 

 

 

 

Trond throws out his arm. It catches her hard across the chest mid-step and sweeps the air from her lungs.

 

"Stop." He looks around. Left. Right. Down. And then at Sigrun, cursing up a hoarse little storm.

 

"Tell me," he asks her, "what do you see?"

 

"Uh? Trees? The same shit I see in any other part of the forest."

 

"Wrong. Try it again." Oh, for fuck's sake. Now he's just doing this to be a pain in the ass. If there's something he sees and wants her to pick up on, there's no reason to turn it into a game.

 

"Some dead trees? Rotting stuff? Deer shit?"

 

"Pff. Your grandmother's blind old cat hunted better than this. Try harder. Actually look." She _is_ looking. And she still doesn't see anything. Normal forest, normal dirt, normal trees, normal leaves, normal rotting logs. And it smells. It's freaking gross.

 

She pushes past Trond's arm to get closer to the clearing. The smell gets worse the closer she gets. It's got the thick bite of decay, and--

 

\--she sniffs--

 

\--and the sour tang of festering wound. Trond watches the way her expression changes from disgust to confusion.

 

"Ew," she says.

 

Apparently, not the answer he was looking for.

 

"You can complain when you've earned the right to it. Now tell me what this means." It's like kicking over a cooking pot. The thing that's been simmering in her chest since they left boils over at last. It surges up into her throat and spills off her tongue with more bile than even she knew was there.

 

"Okay! Fine! I get it already, I fucked up!" That's what all this is about anyway, isn't it? What's the point in dragging out the torture? "Enough with the stupid punishment already, let's just kill the dumb troll and go home!" And the sooner they get it over with, the better.

 

"Punishment?" Trond sneers. "Stupid child! This isn't punishment. This is an _intervention_."

 

"....intervention?"

 

"Yes, an intervention. Before you get yourself killed." So they told him. They told him everything. Shit. "Now shut up and look again, and tell me what you see."

 

All the bile that was there before is gone -- flushed out by a new floe of stinging humiliation. Sigrun turns away and kneels by the smashed log. At the frayed edges of the part that's smashed are smears of red, turned tacky and dark with time.

 

 

 

 

Emil's avoiding her. Even her man mutiny agrees, which must mean it's pretty serious. Emil turns right in after twiggy runs off on his scouting shift, turns over in his bunk to face the wall, and goes right to sleep. Tuuri shrugs and doubles down on her notes. Leaving just her and the sawbones at the fireside with their miserable drinks.

 

"C'mon, you said you have kids."

 

"I said I've helped care for many children. Not quite the same thing."

 

"Close enough." Sigrun throws a look over her shoulder. It's a pretty sure thing that Emil's not going to come slinking out of the tank until he absolutely has to. Still, never hurts to be sure. Young pride bruises easily. "So now what?"

 

"Now what, in regards to what?" Sigrun opens her mouth to tell him off, he knows what she means, but he finishes: "Your head? Or Emil?"

 

That bang on her head must be serious, if he's not trying to screw with her.

 

"Emil. It's just, he hesitated today. I know he knows he messed up, but.....I need him to _learn_." The words sink in. "Aw, crap. I sound just like my mom."

 

"Is that a bad thing?"

 

"I dunno." Mikkel snorts. It's, actually like the closest thing she's heard to a laugh out of him. Figures her suffering would be what does it.

 

"My condolences, then, should it be appropriate."

 

"I can and I will give you latrine duty, sawbones. You wanna dig the shitpit?" Or so she says, but she's not really feeling it. She sips at her tea and nearly gags. Whatever's in the tin mug is dark and bitter and feels like it dries out her tongue on contact. "Gods, this stuff is nasty. What is it?"

 

"Roasted dandelion root tea substitute, I believe."

 

"Fuck. It's _disgusting_." She sniffs it -- smells like ass, too.

 

"Indeed."

 

 

 

 

After the medics have wheeled the lieutenant off, the captain hobbling along behind their entourage on a crutch, she's brought into the great hall for an audience with the generals -- meaning, a talk with Mom and Dad. Sigrun's face is burning as much from the anger as it is from the shame. Time to be lectured. Like a kid. While they sit up on the high platform in the back like it's a court martial. Mom sits tall in her seat, face set firm like she's been carved out of stone. Dad is stiff, too, but molded to the back and arms of his chair.

 

When she gets to the platform where the captains usually eat, she drops her gun down onto the floorboards and crosses her arms. Hard to miss the way Mom rubs at her temple as the gun clatters on the wood. Whatever. It's empty -- even babies aren't that stupid.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Your captain came to us with some concerns about your hunt today," Dad says.

 

"It was a rough hunt, sure," she agrees, because somebody has to give her side of it. Might as well be her. Except, if he's already been briefed, there's no getting around it:

 

"You abandoned your post."

 

"It wasn't-- I didn't abandon it!" It wasn't _like_ that, they know her, they know she'd never--  I just--"

 

"You left it." Dad's words fall on the empty hall with a resounding weight. He's not listening.

 

"I saw a chance to get an early end for our hunt."

 

"You were disobeying orders."

 

"Well, maybe my orders were stupid!"

 

"Sigrun!" "As long as you are a soldier under someone else's command, it is not your place to decide. You endanger not only yourself, but the rest of your regiment as well. You could have gotten your superiors killed out there today. As I hear it, you very nearly did."

 

"So what? Of course it's dangerous! They know what they got themselves into! They _chose_ to put their lives on the line!" Mom just. Completely hardens over. Something in her hands and in her jaw, like the blood in her veins turned to steel.

 

"No." Is she....scared? No, not scared. But something like it. And it's worse than the angry. "You haven't learned anything at all. They aren't throwing their lives away -- they are entrusting them to us."

 

"It's the same thing!"

 

"Sigrun." This time when he says it, it sounds edged and cold. Dad stands, but mom puts a hand on his arm. What the hell gives? How can they have given so much to all this and still not get it?

 

"Asbjørn. She's young, she doesn't understand. She's a child, not an officer." Dad looks away. It's the same direction as all the portraits on the wall and he has to turn his head the other way again right after just to not face them: Great Grandpa Askel and his stupid, toothless smile.

 

"Yet," he sighs. "Gods willing." The condemnation burns worse than the shame.

 

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

 

"It means you still have so much left to learn." Mom drifts closer. Her cloak whispers against the floor and her medals ring against each other and she's moving so smooth and proud and beautiful that Sigrun almost forgets she's supposed to be mad at her for being on Dad's side. Mom takes her by the shoulder and tips her face up to look at her. "It's very hard, I know. And it isn't fair." The _fuck_. "I'm so sorry, sweetie, I really do wish you had more time."

 

 

 

 

So Sigrun rolls Emil out of bed (proverbially speaking -- without the space to throw him on the floor, a few slaps with a pillow work just fine) bright and early, since it seems to be such an effective tactic. Lalli isn't back from his patrol yet, but it can't possibly be that much longer. This time of year, the sun should be coming up pretty soon. Emil yelps the first time, and doesn't even try to block until the third.

 

"Up and at 'em, kid!" Army 101: don't wanna be hit? Don't get hit. Two more slaps with the pillow until he has his hands up proper. "Busy day ahead of us today -- we've got some cleaning to do!"

 

 

 

 

Trond puts her in a tree.

 

"Your job right now is to act as my spotter. If I hear that gun go off even once before I give you the order to make a shot," he instructs her, "I'm burying you up to your neck in the dirt and leaving you for that pig to dig out."

 

 

 

 

"This is a little training exercise I like to give the new recruits," she tells him once he's dressed and armed and set up outside the tank. "I call it 'Captain for a Day'."

 

"C-captain?" Cue the panic in 3...2... "But I can't-- I've never--"

 

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I'll be helping. It's not like I expect you to know how to track. But the big calls? The strategy and stuff? That's all going to be you."

 

Emil goes pale. Yeah, the exercise has that effect on some people.

 

 

 

 

Funny thing about beasts is, on a clear day you can smell one long before you can see it. Hard to cover up the smell of something that's been dead up to almost a hundred years.

 

Which is how she knows her little friend has arrived.

 

 

 

 

All the undergrowth by the site of the other day's run-in is cracked up pretty soundly from where the troll went careening off into hiding. Survival instincts must have stayed six feet under when the beastie got back up. He's cut a messy but distinct path out of the brush. It's a good place to start tracking.

 

"It'll have built a nest to wait out the winter. In my experience," Sigrun explains, and she crouches to get a look at the direction of the breakages. "It's probably gone back there to lick its wounds."

 

"So..." Emil crouches down to look at the site as well. It takes a trained eyes to know where to start looking -- and he's not seeing it. Yet. Sigrun thumbs at a half snapped-off twig. Just to give him a little push. "That's where we want to hunt it?"

 

"Dunno. I'm not the captain for today. You tell _me_." Heh. Not the response he was hoping for. He groans. But he'll learn.

 

"I don't know! I.... _guess?_ If it's hurt and trying to hide? It seems like it would be the easiest way to-- to kill it." Except he stumbles over the thought. "It sounds a bit cruel, putting it like that."

 

"I mean....yeah, it's not fair. But if it's you or him, you don't want to take any chances."

 

"True...."

 

"Of course, that's only my opinion. And I'm just a tracker." She pretends to examine the grit under her nails. Ooh, he's not going to like this exercise. At all.

 

Good. That's how you know it's working.

 

 

 

They've had to put up all the traps all over again. Pits and deadfalls, and this time snares. Nothing that's going to kill or even maim. And that's if they're lucky. It's not quick, it's not clean, and it's not decisive. It goes against everything a troll hunt is supposed to be. Trond refuses to explain his shitty approach. He keeps to his cover zones on the ground, watching the beast's every movement.

 

The beast almost seems to not know it's dead. It trundles in taking its sweet time sniffing around and inside the trunk of a fallen tree. It paws a bit at the dirt. Like it's digging for food. It snorts. It rumbles. It flicks its tail.

 

But its skin hangs about its flanks in dirty tatters and its eyes are glazed over and bloodied.

 

Order not to shoot stands.

 

 

 

"We're getting awfully far away from the camp...." Emil casts a look back, but with his skills as they are, he probably won't know left from the way they came. This is not lost on him, going by the expression on his face.

 

"Okay?" If he's asking to turn around, he's going to have to work a little harder than that. Up to him to exercise the judgment here. They keep moving.

 

"Just saying." And moving.

 

And moving.

 

 

 

The signal has to come. Sooner or later. They can't just sit here and wait under cover for the beast to go on its merry way.

 

Where _is_ Trond?

 

 

 

It's a pond. Their little runaway buddy has decided to bunk down in the roots of some willow trees by the boggiest pond Sigrun's seen outside an actual swamp. With all the mud, footing's pretty lousy. No hope of smoking it out, either, not with terrain this wet. That much, Emil's bound to have put together.

 

Sure enough, he's running his eyes over the surface of the lake and his fingertips over the vials on his bandolier. All the accelerants in the world won't keep a torch alight once he throws it down a damp access tunnel. She's not a cleanser, but that's a bet even she can make.

 

"It must have burrowed into the mud," Emil says. He sounds a little like he's thinking out loud. "With the root structures around it, the tunnel won't collapse, even if there's a lot of freezing and thawing..."

 

Sigrun scratches her chin. For effect, mostly. Gotta look like it's a thought, not a question.

 

"Yeah, makes sense. So no smoking it out the fun way, huh?" Emil sighs.

 

"Guess not." He turns to take in their assets -- that's good. It means he's thinking on his feet. "And we shouldn't put a charge down the burrow either."

 

"Hm. Nope, sounds dangerous." It's not as much fun when he isn't being petulant about it, but it's a small price to pay for the improvement, she supposes. "Looks like we'll need another way!"

 

 

 

 

There's a rustle in the bushes. More of them? Sigrun trains her rifle on the source. Waits. The beast seems to have heard, too. It raises its head. Still no order to shoot.

 

Moments pass in silence. Then minutes. Sigrun isn't sure how long after that. The boar returns to its exploration of the clearing, sniffling and snorting and pawing at the ground. Sigrun keeps on ear on the bushes and her barrel on the beast.

 

That's when Trond stands and rises from his cover.

 

 

 

 

A long stick reveals the ground's too soft for a good foothold. It sinks a sound ten centimeters into the mud, pulling free with only some effort.

 

"Okay, so maybe we don't stomp on his roof," Emil says.

 

"Sounds like a plan to me."

 

"But we just need to do something to get him out, right? Something that won't bring other stuff over here when he comes to check it out."

 

"Yeah, I'd go for something subtle." That one's a gimme, no shame in being frank about that. Emil screws up his face, looking at the muddied end of the stick without really looking _at_ it. He's trying, bless him, which is more than she can say of some trainees she's had.

 

"Well, maybe...." Emil pauses. "Are you any good at climbing trees?"

 

 

 

 

The boar charges.

 

Shit! From this range--

 

"Uncle Trond!"

 

"Hold fire!" He barks, backing into the bushes. The beast skids to a stop. Even dead it knows a charge into that much cover will trap it. But it hisses and readies itself again, now that Trond is in its sight. "Do not. Move. Unless I say so."

 

Using the bushes as a blockade, he circles the clearing. The beast, at a distance, follows.

 

 

 

 

It's not the willow copse in question, but it's sturdy and it's close enough to where she needs to be. The bag she normally uses to haul books around evidently makes a pretty good bag for lugging decently-sized stones up into the branches. Insurance, of course -- one might not be enough to get the attention of their little escapee. While Emil tests out heft of the spear they've made from a knife, a branch, and some bungee cord. Ah, spears. All that stabbing goodness, with bonus reach. Gotta love those things.

 

"Okay," he says, steeling himself. "When I give you the signal."

 

 

 

 

Faster than a flame going out, the beast's legs snap together beneath it. It's a snare. It's caught in one of the snares. And it's caught good. The boar topples to its side and squirms violently, but cannot break free.

 

Defeated, it wails.

 

"Hmmph." Trond wades back into the bushes. "Good, he's secure. Now get out of that tree, but hold your fire."

 

When he returns to the clearing, he has a camera with him. The beast wails and hisses -- Trond snaps pictures from every angle. Front, sides, back. He even produces a roll of tape to measure with, though he has to eyeball it a bit from a safe distance. Sigrun watches in a daze as he makes notes in a small book from his pocket.

 

"What the...." Trond turns to face her, scowling over the rim of his glasses.

 

"Yes? What is it?"

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"What does it look like?! I'm tracking our interlopers. You do know your parents keep records on everything that gets through, don't you?"

 

Well, now she does, she guesses.

 

"This way," he goes on, "you know what you're up against and how to fight it. You can't get by on gall alone." Trond shoots a sidelong glance her way. "Of course, if you want an early trip to Valhalla that much, you're always welcome to rush in, guns blazing." Aaand cue the roiling humiliation again. Thanks, Uncle Trond.

 

"Okay, fine. Point taken."

 

But he doesn't have to look so smug about it.

 

 

 

 

The stone hits the ground with a wet thud. Down at his post, Emil tenses. And waits.

 

Sure enough, the first one isn't enough. Emil counts to himself; Sigrun can see his lips moving.

 

"--okay," he says, finally. "Give him another." So she does. Captain's orders.

 

But third time's the charm. Slowly, as if woken from a deep sleep, a bloodied bare skull squeezes free of the burrow. If it had eyes, it might have been blinking them, bleary in the thin winter sunlight. But instead, it's a pair of hollow sockets that lock in on Emil, poised and ready with his spear.

 

He gapes. And for a moment, Sigrun thinks he's going to freeze.

 

"Emil--" she shouts. Dammit! He's better than this, he's-- the beast turns to follow her voice--

 

"I've got it!" He calls back. And Emil charges.

 

Could probably do without all the yelling, but he falls in on the beastie with a real warrior's drive: the first blow is enough to stun it. The next several put the issue to bed. By the time the thing's stopped moving at last, Emil's given himself a fresh new coat of red paint. He's panting from the adrenaline more than the exhaustion. And doc's going to kill them for the mess.

 

So worth it.

 

Sigrun swings down from the tree as Emil puts the spear through the troll's head one last time. As she draws near, he turns wide eyes on her.

 

"I think...." he coughs. Not throwing up is an improvement. But they're gonna have to work on the rest of that adrenaline business. "...I think we're good now."

 

"Yeah," Sigrun says, clapping him on one blood-spattered shoulder. "I think we're good."

 

And at least for now it's a start.


End file.
